


chiaroscuro

by lazarov



Series: you don't make art out of good intentions [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety Disorder, Finish What You Started 2015, Footballer!Louis, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Painting, Recreational Drug Use, University Student Harry, University Student Louis, University Student Zayn, artist!zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <b>paint thinner.</b> </p><p>Louis' skin smells like soap and musk and even though he doesn't quite have the courage, sober in the light of day, to reach out and grab hold of Louis' shoulders or hips or anything,  Zayn can't stop himself from leaning into the kiss like he's in that Klimt painting and he thinks manically, <i>I guess that makes me the girl, right?</i>   but Louis tastes so good that he doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> _chiaroscuro_ : the prominent contrast of light and dark

They fall asleep talking about colour and Louis is gone when Zayn wakes up.

 

~

 

"Spill."Catching him mid-yawn, Harry fish-hooks a finger in Zayn's open mouth. 

"Don't!" Zayn yelps, slapping Harry's hand away.He rubs the back of his hand across his lips and yanks his beanie further down on his head, annoyed. _Fucking typical too-peppy-in-the-morning Harry shit._   

Since the semester started, mornings have quickly become routine: most days, Harry shows up at his front door and forces him out of his flat and into the world.It's almost charity, on Harry's behalf, and probably the _only_ reason Zayn hasn't been kicked out of his program for poor attendance.So, he does his best to wake up in time to open the door halfway through Harry's knocks, bleary-eyed and grumpy but appreciative.

"Come _on_ ," Harry moans, spinning to block Zayn's path."Seriously.You had someone over last night, right?"

"It was nothing, just a new mate," Zayn says coolly, sidestepping around him and continuing down the pavement.  

"A new mate?As in -"

 "As in a new mate.  I made a fool of myself at school and we got to talking and he practically _invited_ himself over -"

 "So he came over?"

"Well, yeah, but -"

"Over-over?" Harry asks gently.

"Well, I mean, _yeah_ , he came over.We hung out."Zayn sighs, patting at his pockets.In the back pocket of his jeans he feels the small piece of water-colour paper on which Louis had left his phone number,hurriedly scrawled underneath a short note: 

 

_gotta go_

_text me_

_-louis_

 

He finds his cigarettes after a moment and lights one, inhaling deep before adding, "Does it matter?"

"Maybe not to you."  

"What?"

"I thought Mark was supposed to be the centre of your universe right now?" Harry says slowly.

"Haz, come on, don't -"

"I mean, your career comes first, right?"

Zayn closes his eyes, takes a long drag.Right.Right, his career comes first.Mark comes first.Before school, before relationships.Before Harry."Look, I'm sorry -- I know.I know it's so shitty of me, after I told you we couldn't…"

"Fuck what you told me," Harry says flatly."What we had was a thing and now it's not a thing anymore.And that's fine.I'm over it."

"Okay." Zayn nods cautiously, taking a deliberate drag on his cigarette to buy himself some time.This is dangerous territory.

"I'm just saying," Harry begins, before faltering and sucking in a breath.He bites his lip and rolls it between his teeth."I'm just saying.Asking.What's changed?"

There's an injured look in Harry's eyes and the guilt Zayn thought he'd successfully squelched claws at him anew.Heloops his arm through Harry's and pulls him close to his side."Nothing, Haz.Nothing's changed.It wasn't planned, and it'll probably never happen again."

"It wouldn't matter to me if it did," Harry huffs.Zayn knows he doesn't mean it, but he appreciates Harry saying it all the same.

"Thanks.But it won't," Zayn assures him.He blows out a plume of smoke. "Work first."

"Work first," Harry repeats dully, before giving Zayn a goodbye slap on the back and heading off towards the Social Sciences offices.  Classes don't start for another thirty-five minutes, so Zayn heads towards the Costa, because (as per usual) he has no real food in his fridge and would rather rip off his own face than eat the stale bread hardening by the second on his counter.  _Nothing like a greasy whatever-I-can-get-with-pocketchange school cafe special to start the day off right._

He makes it about twenty metres away from the Costa before, from behind him, a familiar voice shouts, "HEY!"

Zayn cringes and freezes in place.  His fingers clench and unclench and he prays that the shout wasn't meant for him, but he hears soccer boots trotting towards him and he spins around, finding himself face to face with Louis.

"Hey!" Louis says again, nearly as loudly as the first time, and Zayn takes an awkward step backwards to preserve his hearing.

"Hey," Zayn nods, almost casually."What's up?"He shoves his hands in his pockets to try and support the delicate framework of his completely phoney standoffish act.Louis grins at him.

"Sorry I had to bail so early this morning - that was fun, yesterday.We should hang out," he says simply."Again.This week."

"Erm," Zayn says.He forgets what normal people do with their arms and bodies and faces when they're talking to someone they've only recently met and only recently, casually, unexpectedly fucked.So he just stands there, chewing his lip and wishing for death.

To Louis' credit, he only lets Zayn stew in awkward silence for about thirty-seven seconds until he puts them out of their mutual misery and says, brightly,"Alright, well, I have to get to practice.So.I'll just take that as a yes."And then Louis winks and clicks a set of fucking _finger guns_ at him before trotting off towards the football pitch.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Zayn whispers, stunned, at the TOMLINSON on Louis' back as it recedes down the hallway.

He stays frozen in place, debating, before deciding _fuck it_ and heading over to the gallery.  

Work first.

 

~

 

Zayn nods a hello at the girl behind the front desk and trots down the hall toward Mark's office.He rarely sees the gallery in the daytime, and he has to admit that he likes it better - it's more sterile, more museum-like than the loud, crowded parties.  

It's _legit_.

In many ways, it's legit enough that sometimes he feels it's _beyond_ him.These are _artist_ \- recognized and respected, who've actually earned their fucking spots.Rather than earning their spots by, well, _fucking_ their way there.   

Sometimes it becomes a mental spiral for Zayn - spinning in circles trying to rationalize his actions and then tearing himself down before propping himself back up. _You're only selling paintings because you're selling yourself, you know that right?_ but then _Mark has specific taste, and everything in his gallery is high-quality - he wouldn't show your work if it was shit.It wouldn't be worth it for him_.But then, he wonders, that leaves him where?  He usually comes to the same conclusion:  he's talented, his work is _good_ … but neither of those things are the reason he sells.  It's a bittersweet place to be, mentally and career-wise. 

"Hey," Zayn says, knocking gently on the open door."I got your message, sorry I missed your call, I was -"

"You didn't show up last night," Mark says lightly, snapping the t at the end of _night_ in admonishment.He doesn't look up from his paperwork, wire-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his nose.

"No, no, I didn't, was there something major going on?" Zayn rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets.

"No," Mark hums, slashing his signature across a document.  "But, darling Zayn, the expectation, of course, is that you will _be_ here.You can’t expect me to be able to sell your work if I can't show you off, can you?  Clients love to see the pretty face behind the art, you know that."  He sets down his pen and leans back in his creaky leather chair, knotting his chubby fingers behind his head.  His eyes lock onto Zayn's.  "I'm doing you a favour, you know."

Zayn nods, his mouth dry.Hoarsely, he responds, "Yeah, Mark.I know."

"I don't ask for much in return."

Zayn whispers, "I know."

"Good.Be here Friday." Mark pushes his glasses back up his nose with his thumb and leans back down over his desk. "I'd hate to be forced to renegotiate, darling."

Conversation over, then.

 

~

 

He _tries_ to get some of his coursework done, honest to God.He really does try.   

But the sun is bright and the wind is warm and Zayn can't convince himself that going to class or sitting in the studio trying to draw under fluorescent lights is more enticing than sneaking out to the pitch to watch Louis practice. _Again_.Not to mention _against his better judgment_ , because, _jesus christ, man, this is creepy of you, you know?_ Staring from afar is hardly as romantic as it seems in the movies.It's juvenile, and a lot... lurkier.  

He can't help it, though.  The grin Louis had flashed him is still in his head (along with the taste of his skin at the base of Louis' throat and the feeling of goosebumps raising under his fingertips as he'd dragged his hands along Louis' sides).

The day is unusually muggy and most of the boys have stripped off their shirts.  Some are wearing their shirts tied around their heads, to keep the sweat out of their eyes (and also, probably, to mark their status as  _the goofy blokes_  on the team).  Most have just tossed them to the side in a heap and are stealing obvious glances at the girls on the bleachers, who snicker at each other every time they notice.  Louis, though, stays kitted head to toe -  _does that make him_ the serious bloke _?_   Zayn wonders.  

He wishes he had the stones to go over and say hello - at the _very_ least, he wishes he had the stones to text Louis, or to act in any way other than _aloof and cool. Cool Guy Zayn._ The thought strikes him and he pats his pockets, fidgeting around nervously for a moment until he finds the piece of paper again.Louis' number has migrated to the breast pocket of his denim jacket, somehow.Zayn sighs in relief, but doesn't pull it out and tap the number into his phone.

The whole cool-guy thing, even though ninety-percent of the time it's who he wants to be _so badly_ , well, the cool-guy thing is mostly a convenient cover.  Cool-mysterious-guy is fewer degrees away from hip-social-anxiety-guy than most people realize.  Not that he's, like, _completely lacking in social skills_ , fuck that.  But.  Still.  Breaking the First Text seal isn't something he's entirely sure he's capable of - let alone walking over to say _hello_.  Perish the thought.

So, instead of swallowing his pride (or his fear, if _really_ has to admit it), he turns tail and heads home and pulls out a fresh canvas to distract himself.  It's easier.

 

~

 

Working on instinct, he slashes with a thick stick of charcoal across the canvas.Quickly, lightly,Zayn roughs in the background, shaping a figure out of negative space: mostly androgynous but vaguely male, broad shoulders narrowing to slim hips.Bit by bit, he develops whatever feature captures his attention for a few seconds before he gets distracted and flits to something else: sharp jaw, bony elbows, shadowy eyes, angular nose.  

The lips hold his attention the longest: a hard line, hard-set and apprehensive.A slight downwards flick at the corners.

It comes together quickly and Zayn could almost swear that he'd held his breath the whole time, but when he steps back to let his eyes uncross and take in the whole sketch he realizes that the sun's already begun to dip behind the skyline and his whole flat's gone golden-yellow in the evening light.It's a flattering sort of glow, and it softens the blow to the gut he feels when he realizes he's just spent the last however-many hours fixated on his own self-portrait.

"Well," he sighs to himself. _Well._ He decides to light a cigarette rather than stare at his own face any longer (not out of modesty, but because he doesn't want to spend a single fucking masturbatory second debating whether or not he'd flattered himself with the angle of the jaw or the slope of the nose or the delicacy of the wrists).He pushes the flaking window pane up and leans out with his elbows on the sill.The cityscape is at once calming and jarring: sirens and voices and car doors slamming shut.After a few grounding drags of his cigarette, eyes closed and ears perked, he reluctantly pulls out his phone and re-plugs back into the world: 

 

7:19 PM

2 texts from Harry

one text from his sister

one missed call from Mark

 

_Excellent.Good.Just great._

Cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth, he crosses the room and roughly kicks aside some old, crumpled up drop-sheets before kneeling down to dig through his fixative drawer.Murmuring the lyrics to a song he can't remember the name of, he impatiently shuffles around cans and bottles 'til he finds what he's looking for: _bingo._

Zayn stubs out his cigarette on the windowsill, leaving it open for the fumes.  The drawing sits perched on his wall, resting on nails (he likes the stability of the wall compared to his cut-rate easel, and he figures he can ask always his landlord's forgiveness for the holes later).  Avoiding meeting his own eyes, he takes a quick glance and raises the can of fixative and a small voice at the back of his head thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , he should pull out his lighter and, rather than sealing this fucking joke, _maybe_ he should turn the aerosol into a flamethrower and burn everything, his flat included, to the ground.  _L'appel du vide._

But then he shakes his head and pats his back pocket reassuringly, heavy Zippo still deep at the bottom.  

That would be _silly_.

So he carefully seals the charcoal, misting from arm's length away, his nose and mouth pressed into the bend of his elbow, because this one - _this one_ he knows Mark will like.

 

~

 

Zayn is mildly convinced that everything Louis Tomlinson has learned about human interaction has come from bad American movies, becausehe shows up at Zayn's front door late Friday afternoon, completely unannounced, with a smile on his face like it's the _normal thing to do._

 _"_ Oh," Zayn says, and he just stands there with his shoes half pulled-on, his mouth stuck open like a fucking stupid donut because the person on the other side of the door isn't Harry.  

 _Oh, right_. _You know where I live.Right then.Excellent._  

"Did you forget we were gonna hang out?" Louis asks, brushing past him into the flat. 

"Um," Zayn says uselessly, shutting the door and taking a deep breath before turning around."I didn't forget.I just - I didn't know what kind of plans we, uh, had."

Louis is wearing normal clothes again and Zayn's brain crackles and his lips tingle as he remembers the last time he saw Louis out of his kit.His scumbag brain starts to remind him of how he's also seen Louis out of any clothes at all but he gets his shit together and blinks hard to clear his head and looks up in time to see Louis close the gap between them.

Louis' skin smells like soap and musk and even though he doesn't quite have the courage, sober in the light of day, to reach out and grab hold of Louis' shoulders or hips or _anything_ ,Zayn can't stop himself from leaning into the kiss like he's in that Klimt painting and he thinks manically, _I guess that makes me the girl, right?_ but Louis tastes so good that he doesn't care.  A hand starts to snake down Zayn's chest, picking past the waistband of his jeans, before the automatic jump of his cock kickstarts his brain and he remembers.  "Fuck!"

Zayn pulls back and yanks out his mobile, checking the time.He swears again and shoves his phone back in his pocket."Christ, I'm sorry - I have to go.I was literally just about to leave, right before you knocked."

Hair mussed and mouth red-rimmed and shiny, Louis just stares at him.  

"Okay," he says amiably, after a moment."Where we goin'?"

 _No no no no no_.  Zayn grits his jaw.  "I, er, have to go to work.  Work thing."  

"Art show thing?" Louis' eyes glint and he looks genuinely excited.  

He isn't sure what to say, exactly, so Zayn nods and chews at the inside of his cheek."Yeah, sort of.My stuff isn't on show tonight - it's, like, _in_ the gallery but another client of Mark's is being featured - but, like, it's sort of a networking thing and I have to go?You know?"

Louis nods."Cool.Well, I won't keep you then.Just gimme your number, yeah?So I don't have to stalk you around school or cold-call you at your flat all _Single-White-Female_."Louis pulls out his phone, cocking an eyebrow at him until Zayn, brain struggling to catch up to the situation, finally remembers his own mobile number. He recites it and Louis taps at his phone, "Cheers," and heads out the door with a wave over his shoulder. 

A millisecond after the door shuts, his phone buzzes.

**_i hope i'm not being obnoxiously forward but let's make out and talk about art some more, yeah?_ **

Zayn's heart speeds up and his fingers hover over the screen.

**_okay_ **

He hits send, then immediately decides that that's a shitty, insubstantial answer and adds,

**_i'd really like that_ **

His phone buzzes again.

**_good.i like you._ **

**_and i hate to admit it_ **

**_but i find you exactly as intriguing as you want people to think you are._ **

Buzz.

**_i mean that in the fondest way possible._ **

**_good luck at work tonight._ **

Zayn releases the breath he didn't know he was holding and something deep inside him pinches and twists.

_Work first._

 

~

 

"I need a cigarette."

Standing in their usual position, side by side in the corner of the gallery that has the most advantageous view of the crowd, Harry and Zayn swig from a shared flute of free champagne and take turns picking out victims.

"You need some fucking sleep is what you need," Harry chides, before bumping Zayn with his elbow and nodding his head towards his newest target.In her seventies, wrinkled as an elephant (except for her drum-tight face) and not a single pound over 7-stone, she's wearing the skins of at least three separate dead animals draped across her tiny, brittle person. _It's called faaaashion, baby, haven't you heard?_ In unison, Harry and Zayn shuffle to the left, then the right, snickering as the grey fox's empty eye-sockets follow them back and forth from its perch on her shoulders.  

"Yikes," Zayn laughs, nodding appreciatively.He downs the last gulp of booze and clinks the champagne glass down on the nearest hard surface (he's not entirely certain if it's an installation or a new end-table - _who gives a shit?_ )."Good one.I think you win."

Cocking an eyebrow at him, Harry asks, "You tapping out already, Malik?" 

"Duty calls, like always.I gotta schmooze," Zayn nods.He shakes himself out, arms spread wide like a gymnast preparing to do something _really impressive_.Then, with a deep breath, re-centres his beanie on his head, all grim resignation.  

"Alright, fine, abandon me," Harry grumbles, pretend-annoyed (but also, Zayn can tell, kind of for-real annoyed)."Don't you dare leave the premises without circling back 'round to see me, 'kay?" 

"Cross my heart," Zayn promises solemnly, dragging his finger over his chest in the shape of an 'x' before slipping away into the crowd.

 

~

 

The night feels off.Usually, Zayn doesn't have much trouble psyching himself up for the vapid elbow-rubbing and the polite laughter and the limp handshakes.But tonight, he decides, tonight he just _doesn't have the fucking patience._ In his back pocket, his phone buzzes and he realizes he knows exactly why.

"You know, your little curly-haired muppet of a friend has been eyeing us from across the room.I've noticed he's become a bit of a, shall we say, _staple_ at my gallery."Mark sucks his teeth derisively and takes a pointed sip of his wine."Bit of a hanger-on, isn't he?"

Zayn bristles and Mark waves away the thought with a swish of his hand.

"Game time," Mark announces.

"Hmm?" Zayn asks, distracted.  Mark rolls his eyes at him and nods towards their target.

"What do you think of this one.Go."

"It's, er… Visceral?"

Mark snorts derisively and Zayn glances over at him, taken aback.It's not exactly the response he was expecting - the painting is _fine,_ whatever.He can usually placate Mark with half-assed criticisms and boring, unimaginative appraisals all evening until Mark finally puts him out of his misery and drags him into a cab.  

As far as Zayn is concerned (and as far as he's sure Mark is concerned) his job on Friday nights is to show up, look pretty, and put out.At the very least, he knows he's not kept around for his _opinions_.

"Visceral," Mark repeats, amused."I hope, by 'visceral,' you mean it literally looks like he smeared the canvas with the contents of his own fucking bowels."

"Er… Yes?"Zayn agrees lamely, brows knitted together.He gives up on trying to read Mark's expression and looks back towards the painting, tilting his head.  

"It's _shit,_ " Mark adds, as if any clarification was needed. 

 _And it's in_ your _gallery_ , Zayn wants to retort but he holds his tongue.The piece is imposing: four feet wide by four feet tall, stretched canvas in a rough-hewn wooden frame.It depicts a female figure, shakily carved out of the background with nothing more than a black outline and impulsive shading.Her face is all at once blank and mournful, sharp angles and deep colours. _Very Egon Schiele_ , Zayn decides.  

He takes a half-step backwards and decides, too, that the style is uncomfortably close to his own.  

Zayn looks over at Mark to see if maybe, just maybe, he was joking with that bitchy jab but Mark has already left his side and moved on to a group of art snob elite gathered 'round the Ethan Majeski piece in the corner ("Hello, lovelies!So glad to see you here."). He turns back to the painting with a frown. _It's not_ that _similar,_ he reasons, taking an annoyed swig of wine _,_ _only the colour scheme and the ultra-self-conscious modernist influence... and just about everything fucking else about it._

"Kinda looks like one of yours, huh," Harry says brightly from behind him.

Zayn groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes."Can you fucking not."

"Oh, so you noticed, then?"Harry shields his eyes from the gallery lights as he gazes up at the painting, making a _tsp_ sound.Then, patting him on the back consolingly, Harry guides Zayn away. They head towards the far end of the gallery, which (as Zayn is darkly amused to find) is currently hosting Christina Iguchi's new collection:eight limestone sculptures of genitals masquerading as carnivorous plants.Or maybe vice versa - who fucking knows. _Art_ , man.

They wander around the installation (as politely and maturely as possible), Harry chewing on his lip to stifle a smirk and Zayn distracted, a cartoon storm cloud of frustration floating around his head.Breaking the silence, Harry says lightly: "So, obviously I've been biding my time waiting to say this, and now that you're in a shitty mood already it's probably as good a time as ever, but.Your new _muse_.He's very handsome." Harry says it almost casually, but Zayn catches him glancing over to judge his reaction.

Zayn decides to ignore him.Undaunted, Harry continues, "He has a certain…"

"If you say ' _je ne sais quoi_ ' I will actually murder you," Zayn snaps dully.He repeats for effect: " _Actually murder you."_

"Well I guess I won't say it then," Harry shrugs innocently, rocking back on his heels and poking a finger between the teeth of a massive, vulvic venus flytrap.

"Uh huh.Don't touch that."Elbowing Harry in the ribs as he slides past, Zayn picks his way through the crowd towards the entrance.Digging around in his pockets for his lighter while deftly dodging gallery patrons, he adds over his shoulder, "Don't make me ask, because you're obviously _dying_ for me to ask."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."Following behind, Harry holds up his hands. _Don't shoot_.Doe-eyed, innocent Bambi motherfucker.

"Oh, fuck you, fine," Zayn sighs dramatically, holding open the door.They step out into the chill evening air and walk around the side of the building, where Zayn can smoke without being spied by Mark (who, aside from the excess alcohol and the drugs and the risky sex, is _deeply_ health-conscious)."Fine. _Fine_.Where'd you see him?"

"At school."Harry quirks an eyebrow at him. _Duh_.

" _At school_ ," Zayn mimics him, sing-song, around his cigarette and struggles to light it in the breeze.  

"I mean," Harry scoffs, "where do you _think_ I saw him?  The supermarket?"

"Don't be a dick." The tip of his cigarette finally catches and Zayn sighs, leaning his head back against the rough brick wall.  "Okay, cool, you saw him."

"More like I saw you staring at him on the pitch," Harry explains.  "He might as well have had one of those sniper lasers from the movies glowing in the middle of his forehead, you were staring at him so hard.  You're  _very_  obvious."

"I know," Zayn admits with a groan, even though he had _really_ been hoping - with every fucking fibre of his being - he wasn't.  _Great_.  "Sorry," he adds, because he feels he should.

Harry waves a hand at him, shrugging.  "It's fine.  I mean, I'm kind of jealous and kind of furious with you, but.  I'm going to choose to be an adult about it."

"You don't have to," Zayn concedes.  "I mean, I would understand if you weren't, you know, an adult about it.  I'm such a shit."

"You are," Harry agrees.  "But I'm kind of used to you doing your very best to fuck everyone who isn't me," he adds with a smirk.  

"I suck," Zayn nods, taking a last drag of his half-finished smoke before flicking it into the alley.  "I don't deserve you anyway."

"What a cop-out."  Harry punches him in the arm, affectionately but slightly harder than normal.  From around the corner, they can hear Mark calling Zayn's name.  _Busted._ "Your boss is calling," Harry remarks icily.

"Guess that means we're heading out," Zayn bites his lip, apologetic.  

"You could go _home_ , you know," Harry says, frowning at him.  "You don't need this."

Zayn shakes his head.  "I have to," he murmurs, pulling Harry into a hug.  Harry doesn't lift his arms to hug him back.  "I have to."  

He doesn't move to respond at all, just lets Zayn stand there with his arms folded around him like a shield until he finally whispers,  "Be safe," before pressing a kiss to Zayn's cheek and pulling away.  Zayn nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, walking away to round the corner, back to reality.

"God, Zayn, you smell like _smoke_ ," Mark hisses before pushing him into the cab.

 

~

 

Most nights, they barely get three steps into Mark's condo before Zayn has a hand wrapped around his throat and another pulling at the waistband of his jeans, too clumsy or lazy to bother unbuttoning them.Tonight is no exception.

"You gonna fuck me?"Zayn asks, breathy and low.It's not because he doesn't already know the answer - he _knows_ the answer - but because Mark likes to hear him say it.

At this point in the game, Zayn knows precisely what he has to do to make sure Mark is _happy_.He knows exactly what he needs to do get Mark off as quickly as possible, exactly what boxes to tick so that he can get himself home before sunrise and scrub Mark off his skin before his morning classes.  

With his jeans pushed halfway down and chafe marks on his hipbones, Zayn lets Mark walk him backwards towards the bedroom.The backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and his legs buckle, Mark's hand on the centre of his chest pushing him downwards.

"You know what to do," Mark murmurs, and Zayn does.He unzips Mark's flies and tries not to gag at the grunt Mark makes as Zayn takes him in his mouth and he tries not to think about what - whom - Mark's been doing in the days between their last _encounter.Transaction?No, encounter._ It's usually easy to block out those kinds of thoughts when he's had six glasses of free champagne but tonight he was too distracted to get his fill at the gallery and now he's running on empty.

Sensing him waver, Mark catches Zayn by the chin.    

"Here," he says, a small pile of blow already prepared on the web of the thumb of his left hand.He presses it under Zayn's nose.It's not often that Mark offers him a bump, thankfully - Zayn decided long ago that coke doesn't agree with him - but he doesn't want to offend.So he pulls Mark's cock from his mouth just long enough to clumsily snort half before diving back to work, his brain tingling and his heart speeding up. 

"Good boy," Mark hums, placing his hand on the back of Zayn's head, thick fingers rubbing rough circles into his scalp."My beautiful boy.""

Anxiety bursts out of base of his skull, making the tips of his fingers go numb, and Zayn lets Mark slip from his mouth, sliding wetly against his cheek as he takes a deep breath.He grips the bed sheet and counts to three before looking up and playing it off.

"I think you're ready for me, yeah?" Zayn asks, voice unwavering.

"Always," Mark grunts, and Zayn falls back onto the bed, scooting himself backwards to lean his shoulders against the headboard.The cool steel helps his anxiety dissipate enough for him to find his resolve, pulling his jeans off and yanking his shirt over his head.The mattress shifts and Mark is on him, naked and palming his own cock, panting in his face.

Zayn sneaks a glance down, he can't help himself, and he doesn't know why he bothers because he already knew Mark wouldn't wear a condom.Catching his eye, Mark asks, "Oh darling, you don't mind, do you?"

Mark likes to ask - just like that, _you don't mind, do you darling?_ \- and Zayn thinks that maybe it's just to feed into his own idea that he's a _good guy_.He can hear Harry's words at the back of his mind, furious: _You're so much smarter than this, Zayn._ But he shakes his head no.He doesn't mind.

Because this is the deal he's made.

Mark flashes him a shark's grin and flips him over, biting into his shoulder and hastily pressing two lubricated fingers into him.  Showtime.

Mark likes to fuck him, flashy and ostentatious, like he's riding a million-dollar show horse or driving a wastefully expensive sports car.So, whether face-down on the mattress or couch cushion or, sometimes, with his hands braced against the kitchen counter, Zayn always puts on a show.Tonight is no exception: ass in the air, tattoos and ribcage on show and his lips parted _just so_.

You need to be business-minded to feed yourself in the art world, you know?  

So he moans like he means it.He lets Mark hook his fingers in his mouth and pull his hair and slap his face.Zayn knows that this is the deal they've made, and Mark has to feel like he's getting his time & money's worth. 

"Louder," Mark snaps at him, and Zayn forces a moan - cheap and vulgar.Mark jerks his hips in response and Zayn knows he's close.  

Three more pumps and Mark pulls out, spilling himself over Zayn's back - Zayn whimpers a little, half from the painful rawness and half because Mark gets off, more than anything else, on his fucking _vulnerability_.Nothing makes him come like the lost, starving puppy act.He tries not to think much about how _incredibly_ fucked up that is (or how Harry would rip him a new one if he'd had _any idea_ ).

For almost a full minute, Zayn stays frozen in place staring at the headboard and listening to Mark's heavy breathing, until Mark finally rolls off the bed and tosses him a towel to clean himself off. _These are disgustingly expensive sheets, darling._  

Zayn wipes awkwardly at his own back, trying to reach what he can, before giving up and pulling on his t-shirt.He can't see his fucking jeans anywhere.Mark's left the room, he can hear him banging around making eggs or coffee or god knows what.

"Fucking fuck," he whispers, getting on his knees to look under the bed, tears pricking at his eyes.He rubs them roughly with the back of his hand and stands back up, embarrassed and exposed, before finding his _stupid fucking jeans_ wrapped up in the bedspread. 

"I'll call you a cab," Mark yells from the kitchen.

This is the deal he's made.  

 

~

 

The cab pulls up outside Zayn's building at quarter-to-three in the morning.He hands a wad of cash to the cabbie - might have been £10, might have been £50, whatever Mark had pressed into his hand before he'd left - and doesn't wait for change before stumbling out into the cold air.He doesn't quite make it to the front door before he falls on his knees and has to spend a full minute sitting on the damp pavement, heaving a coughing and thinking, _oh, this is what it feels like to completely lose it._ Sometimes - _usually_ \- he can't recognize his own numbness until all his emotions come flooding back at once, streaming up his nose and down his throat and, before he can take one last gulp of air, he's drowning in them.  

And then, only a couple of minutes later, when his chest eventually loosens and his vision unclouds and he can take a proper breath, he always feels _very dramatic_.  

 _How embarrassing, Zayn Malik.Get your shit together and get off the ground._  

He collects himself enough to push himself back to his feet and lights a cigarette, half-wondering if the cabbie witnessed that display, or if he'd driven off as soon as he'd realized Zayn had drastically overpaid him.On cue, his phone buzzes.  Louis.

**_sorry, it's so late i know_ **

**_i just finished watching this documentary and it reminded me of you_ **

**_i want to show it to you but i'm not convinced you have internet in your flat/squat_ **

**_anyway you're probably sleeping, hope work was good_**  

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, it's the cruelest feeling he's ever felt.

 

~

 

 _Brrrrriiiiiiiing_. 

The sound of his mobile nearly sends him a foot into the air and he tosses his blanket aside, digging around in the couch cushions.  

"Hello?"Zayn answers, voice cracking.He clears his throat, trying his best to sound like he hasn't just woken up at two in the afternoon.

"Zaaaaayn, darling," Mark purrs."How _are_ you?Miss you already."

"I'm - I'm good.Just, you know.Taking it easy."  He groans inwardly.  ' _Taking it easy'?  Jesus._ _Be cool._

" _Excellent_.Excellent," Mark says quickly." _Well_ , I just wanted to let you know that we have to bump you this week, babe - _so sorry_ \- we've just got a _very exciting_ new collection coming in and we need the space - _I know you understand_ \- we're just going to tuck your pieces in storage for the shortest little while, unless you want to pick them up for the time being - _of course, I wouldn't mind_ \- but you're still my number one, darling!Thanks for being so flexible!"

There isn't anything to say, so, after spending a couple of seconds trying to get his jaw to work Zayn just mumbles, "Of course."

"Ta!" The line goes dead and Zayn tosses his phone down, stunned.He feels tears pricking at his eyes and he furiously blinks them away, shaking his head. _It's fine.Everything's fine._ He takes a deep breath. _This is a speed bump.This is completely fine._

_No, you know what?Fuck that._

"FUCK YOU," Zayn shouts, stomping over to the portrait."Fuck _you._ " 

He grabs the nearest small object - a CD case - and whips it at the canvas, missing by a mile and leaving a dent in the plaster.It's not satisfying enough, so he grabs a painting knife and throws it hard, just like a circus performer, aiming right between his doppelgänger's eyes.Rather than sticking into the canvas, the knife bounces off and clatters to the ground unceremoniously.  His fingers clench and unclench, manic, and it takes most of his strength to keep his feet planted instead of rushing over and ripping the portrait off the wall with both hands and cracking the frame over his knee.  His head swims and he thinks that maybe, _maybe_ he has enough rage in his veins that he could rip the canvas in half with his bare hands if he tried.  

Something catches in his chest and he doubles over, coughing uncontrollably - deep and raspy and disgusting.  "Fuck," he croaks, pounding a fist on his sternum.  He pants, hands on his knees, and stares back up at the portrait.  Slowly, his breath comes back and his rage quells and morphs into something diaphanous and hard to identify - something like sadness or shame or regret but not nearly as acute as rage, so.  It's relief enough. 

In the shower, the morning after his last night at Mark's, he'd found the little constellation of fingerprint-bruises forming across his lower back, his inner thighs, his hipbones.Now, reaching down, Zayn slides his fingers over his stomach, over his hips, finding the biggest bruise.He pinches at it, presses _hard_ into its swollen purpley-green centre with his thumb, and the blunt pain makes him bite his lip.  

"Idiot," he whispers to himself.Chiding and self-pitying, all at once.

There's nothing else to do - he can't convince himself to go to sleep or watch telly or make himself something to eat- so he picks up his palette and sets to work.  It's the _only_ thing to do.  He piles oil paint on his knife, slaps it over the charcoal face - greenblueredwhitegraygreenpurple.  Peaks and valleys of swirling colour, smeared over the mouth, obscuring it entirely, creeping down the throat, dragged down the chest.  Pooling in the dips of the ribcage, in the crevasses of the collarbones.  Delicately, delicately, he adds bruises to the hips, to the chest.  

When he's done, there's a monster in front of him:  dark eyes (still beautiful and thickly-lashed and framed by angry brows) and a shock of black hair.  A hint of sharp cheekbones.  The lower half of his face is gone - nothing but heavy-handed layers of paint.  No longer recognizable, unless you _really_ look.  Essentially anonymous; mute and unblinking and unquestioning.   _The boy without anything more to say._

Anyway, he's glad not to have his own face staring down at him anymore.

 

~

 

The weekend passes as a blur from Zayn's spot on the couch, curled in the fetal position.  He spends the rest of the weekend smoking too much pot and letting the TV blare to drown out the thoughts he isn't really thinking at all.  Rain, car alarms, night, day, rain, night.  He makes sure to respond to Harry's texts with an uncanny timeliness, because he knows if he doesn't Harry will _immediately_ stomp over and try to pull him out of his own misery and that's the last thing he wants.  Wallowing, you might call it.  _Whatever._

Louis doesn't text, and maybe that's alright.  It's easier than if he had.

He drags himself from the couch intermittently for tea and plain brown toast, even convinces himself to sit on the floor and scribble out a half-assed figure study for class.  Mostly, wrapped in a crocheted blanket from his nan, he just stares at the wall and waits for Monday. 

Harry picks him up right on time on Monday morning.He barely manages to knock twice before Zayn yanks the door open, slides through, and slams it behind him. 

"You look like shit," Harry notes.His eyebrows knit together and he looks Zayn up and down.

Zayn rolls his eyes and fumbles for his keys, locking the door." _Thanks_.Let's go."He leads the way down the hall, hands shoved in his pockets.

"No, seriously," Harry frowns at him."What's up?Did you even leave your flat _once_ all weekend?"

"I took a me-day.A couple me-days."They make their way down the staircase and out the front doors into the fall breeze and, breathing fresh air for the first time in days, Zayn decides maybe coming clean wouldn't be the worst thing."Mark dropped me from the gallery." 

Saying it out loud, seeing Harry's face change and react and the concerned look on his face.It makes it real, all of a sudden, and Zayn wishes he could take it back.He wishes he could snatch the words out of the air and shove them back in his mouth and swallow them down.  

"What?" Harry asks, eyebrows shooting up."You're kidding me."His hand reaches towards Zayn's shoulder, briefly, but he reconsiders halfway and sticks his hands in his pockets instead.  

"Nope," Zayn admits."He called Saturday.I got _bumped_."

"Temporarily?"

"Who fucking knows."Zayn exhales, running a hand through his hair.He shakes his head."Could be for a week or two.Could be indefinitely.He didn't really say, and I didn't really want to, you know, _ask._ Just in case it's the latter."

"Well," Harry sighs." _Shit,_ " he adds, ineffectually, offering Zayn an empathetic grimace.

"Shit is right," Zayn agrees.He tries to light a cigarette, but his hand is so shaky that he can't get his fingers to work the fucking child safety band."God _damn_ it," he mumbles.

"Give me that."Harry snatches the Bic from him and lights it in one try.  

"Thank you, Don Draper," Zayn huffs, and they start to walk again.

"Shut up," Harry snaps, handing the lighter back to him.  He frowns at Zayn again, peers at his face.  "You're a mess."

Zayn takes a long drag and flicks his cigarette, staring down at his vibrating fingers.  "I know," he mutters.  "To be honest, I'm kind of a disaster right now, Haz."

Harry nods.  "Yeah, I know," he says softly.  He drags his feet a little and adds gently: "I wasn't sure when you were gonna figure that out for yourself."

"Thanks," Zayn scoffs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  He takes another drag of his cigarette and coughs a laugh, "I thought I had it all together.  Things were kind of working."  Tears prick at his eyes and he sniffs.  "Fuck," he sighs, chuckling self-consciously and rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"Yeah," Harry agrees.  He pats Zayn on the back, rubs circles into the space between his shoulder blades. "Kinda working.  But.  You kind of let yourself get trapped in the palm of Mark's hand, you know?  You gotta, like… let yourself stand on your own two feet a little more.  And also, you know, be a little easier on yourself."

Zayn nods, not knowing where to begin with  _any_ of that.  "Okay," he says, unconvincingly.  

"Call that boy, to start with," Harry sighs, giving him a nudge with his elbow.   Zayn looks at him, maybe a little incredulously, and Harry adds: "Let yourself _live_ a little."

 

 

~

 

Slouched in his seat in class, half-listening to a lecture on Caravaggio, Zayn decides to swallow his fear:

**_i'm sorry i didn't text_**

Louis responds within ten minutes (faster than Zayn probably deserves), and he almost jumps out of his seat when his phone buzzes:

**_hey stranger._**

**_i'd just about given up on you._**

Zayn bites his lip and hides his phone in his lap.  

**_i would have deserved it_**

The girl next to him shoots him a look and Zayn scrambles to turn the vibration off and brightness down.

**_no_ **

**_you wouldn't have._**  

He types quickly and presses send before he can reconsider: 

**_hang out with me tonight?_ **

Buzz. 

**_as if i don't have anything better to do?  
_ **

**_i'm kidding_ **

**_i'll bring food_ **

 

~

 

"I brought food!  Sort of!" Louis announces brightly, grinning and waving a plastic bag weighted down with something fragrant wrapped in foil.  "It's kebabs," he adds, ruining the mystique.

"Thank you," Zayn smiles and takes the bag from Louis' hand, ushering him inside.  "I think I have clean plates?"

"Excellent," Louis laughs.  "Perfect."  He kicks off his hole-y New Balances and, with his toes, lines them up beside the front door like a schoolboy.  Watching from the kitchen, Zayn's heart nearly explodes in his chest, so he intently sets to work looking for plates to hide his red cheeks. 

"God, I forgot how many paintings there were," Louis sighs happily, swivelling his head."Just, like, leaned up against the walls.They're _all over_.Doesn't the arts department give you studio space at Uni?I can't imagine how much you're paying them in tuition."

"Thanks for not saying _how much my parents are paying them_ ," Zayn groans."Even though it'd be true."

"Even though it'd be true," Louis nods, snorting a laugh.  Zayn pulls a kebab from the bag and sets it on a plate before handing it to Louis.  "Cheers," Louis grins, unwrapping the end and taking a huge bite all in one practiced movement.

"But, yeah," Zayn nods, frowning at the clutter lining the walls of his otherwise-bare flat.  He starts in on his own kebab before adding around a mouthful of flatbread and meat, "We get studio space, but hardly any, and to be completely honest I can't get anything done with other people, like, looking at me and standing behind me and breathing down my neck.  You know?"

"Yeah," Louis agrees.  "Yeah, I mean, I can imagine.  But I'm a _team sports_ kind of bloke, so."

"Right," Zayn laughs."Of course."

They eat in comfortable silence for a bit, Zayn half-wondering as he chews if ultra-garlicky kebab isn't a _terrible_ choice when it comes to buying food for someone you may be about to make out with.  Not that he's, like, counting his chickens before they hatch or anything.

It's not long until they find themselves in the same position as before, sprawled on the sofa with comically-full bellies, _this_ side of too-stoned. 

"If you could paint like anyone else for one day, who would it be?" Louis asks, his cheek smushed comfortably against a cushion. 

"Hm."It's one of those impossible questions, like trying to think of your favourite song.He goes with the first thing to come to mind."Lucian Freud, maybe?I dunno."

"Okay," Louis pauses to digest his answer, fingers reaching out to play with the corner of Zayn's flannel.  "Why him?"

"I like, er, the weight of his art?"Zayn tries to pick all the words to describe what he means from the fuzzy cloud of thoughts in his head."All his figures look, like, modelled out of _wax_.Like he's painting and sculpting at the same time."

Louis nods appreciatively before sitting up and wrapping a hand behind Zayn's neck, pulling him in close.  Slowly, he sucks Zayn's bottom lip between his own before pressing in further, kissing him like he _fucking means it_.  Then pulls back:  "I like that answer.  Good answer."

"Thanks," Zayn says dumbly.  The kiss leaves him yearning and honest so he blurts out, "I got dropped by my gallery.  They needed more wall space."

"Bummer," Louis sighs, patting Zayn on the head affectionately.  "It'll be fine."

"No, see, it was kind of my big break," Zayn explains, shaking his head.  "The owner and I had a _deal_ , and now this could put me back to square one, and -"

"So?" Louis asks.  He cocks his head at him and for a moment Zayn wants to shove him off the couch, but Louis continues, "I mean, you're what?  Twenty-one?  Twenty-two?  You've got all the time in the world.  You don't need some gallery owner to get your name out there - we live in a time where the _internet_ exists, for chrissakes."

"Yeah, but -"

"Seriously, you are _so_ talented, and I know you're probably reeling right now which is maybe or maybe not why you _ignored me for a week, thanks very much_ _,_ but I have all the faith in the world that you'll be fine.  Just, like, man up.  Be an adult."

"Be an _adult?_ " Zayn asks, annoyed but curious.  He'd probably be leaning more towards the former if it weren't for Louis' warm hand resting on his knee and the earnest crinkles at the corner of Louis' eyes. 

 "I just think," Louis begins, before pausing to choose his words.  "I just think that when you're a kid, you know - things just happen _to_ you, right?  You get picked up and you get dropped off and you get told what to draw so you draw it and you get told what to think so you think it."

Involuntarily, Zayn's eyes shift a millimetre - the very beginnings of an eye roll - and Louis holds up a finger.  

"Let me finish.What I'm saying is: when you're a kid, things just kind of happen _around_ you.But being an adult, I think, means making things happen for yourself.Or, at least, it means not sitting around and letting other people shape your life for you."

Way at the back of his mind, Zayn wonders if fucking Mark in exchange for gallery space counts as _taking things for himself_ or if it lands squarely in the category of _letting other people shape his life for him_ , but he's too stoned to really give a shit. _Pish fucking posh._

"God, you talk a lot of bollocks."

"Maybe it's your fault - you keep taking me home and getting me way too high instead of taking me on, you know, a _real date_."  To punctuate his point, he nabs another perfectly-rolled spliff off of Zayn's scuffed-up coffee table and lights it, taking a gentle pull before offering it over.

Zayn shakes his head and realizes, at the very hazy back of his mind, he didn't know that that was what this _wasn't_.   

"I thought this _was_ a date."He's too stoned to keep himself from admitting it.

"Oh?I guess," Louis considers it, rolling the joint between his fingers contemplatively, " _I guess_ , a date is more a state of mind than, you know, a _thing_ you have to, like, perform a certain way.Kebabs and spliff and our bullshit talks could be date."

"A proper one?"

"Mmm," Louis hums."Yes, a proper one."

 "So who's yours?" Zayn asks, to distract from the heat rising in his cheeks.  "Who would you want to paint like?"

"I don't paint," Louis points out.Zayn rolls his eyes, because _duh_ and also because Louis is passionate enough about art that it's clear he only asked the question _in the first place_ in hopes that Zayn would ask him back.He pokes Louis' hipbone, urging him on, and Louis waves his hand away, continuing with a flourish: " _Buuuut_ , I would want to paint like… Cy Twombly.Definitely."

"Seriously?" Zayn smacks him on the arm playfully."Terrible choice!Anybody could paint like Twombly.You might as well have said fucking, _fucking_ Jackson Pollock."

"Nah," Louis slowly shakes his head, half-smiling, and Zayn loses his gaze as Louis goes somewhere far off, his eyes fixated on a blank spot on the wall."You're wrong, mate."

 _He's probably right_.  Zayn rolls himself off the sofa and heads towards his stereo (dented and scratched and covered in stickers promoting ska bands he's never heard of - a cheap pawn shop find).  Louis follows after him, glancing at his music collection before checking out the drying paintings lining the baseboards of the flat.  After digging around for a moment, Zayn chooses a CD from his messy stack - which is right next to his messy stack of books, alongside his messy stack of bills.

"Hope this is okay," he murmurs before sliding it into the stereo and clicking forward through the first few tracks until he finds the _right_ song and the speakers crackle awake.  

_Wanna be on your mind.  Stay there all the time._

The music floats over them and Zayn appreciates the excuse not to talk anymore - he just watches the curve of Louis' spine shift and flex under his vest as he cranes his neck to look down, eyes zeroing in on the portrait.  Zayn had placed it on the floor to dry, in the corner where (he'd hoped) it would be inconspicuous.  _Ah, well_.

In the dim glow of the fairy lights strung across the room, he can just barely see the ripple of fine muscle under Louis' skin and the layers of mismatched, overlapping tan lines running across Louis' shoulder blades.    A quick glimpse of the sharpest contrast of light and dark, the line across Louis' neck from his' football kit, and Zayn's suddenly, instantly half-hard.

"It's not dry yet," Zayn warns, and thinks that maybe that's exactly the wrong thing to say because Louis is exactly as high as he is and there's nothing more enticing to a weed-addled brain than touching wet paint when you know you're not supposed to.  But Louis nods and gently drags his fingers along the top edge of the canvas before dropping down to crouch in front of it, nose inches away from the thick, _impasto_ layers of viridian and ochre and cadmium. 

"Don't," Zayn sighs, reaching towards Louis' shoulder.  "Everything's uglier up close."

"Nah," Louis shakes his head and rocks on his heels.  "I like it this way.  I can see all your nooks and crannies."  

"My nooks and crannies?  It's not -" Zayn begins, but Louis says something else and Zayn's head is all buzzy and he doesn't catch it.  "What?" he asks, a little too loudly.

"Every painter paints himself," Louis mumbles, a second time, so softly Zayn barely catches it.  Louis begins to add something else, about how _that's not actually what that line, means, obviously_ , but Zayn isn't listening.  He looks away from the nape of Louis' neck and into the eyes of the sad-eyed, mute man in the painting.

 _God,_ _I fucking hope not,_ he almost says out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> The description of Zayn's painting was inspired primarily by [KwangHo Shin.](https://www.google.ca/search?q=kwangho+shin+96&rlz=1C5CHFA_enCA509CA510&espv=2&biw=1280&bih=583&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=MWVjVbf9BYHfoATl6IHYBg&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ#imgrc=deiuDOvN2Mjp4M%253A%3BoTCq5kK4SZUB-M%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fc300221.r21.cf1.rackcdn.com%252Fsaatchi-online-artist-kwangho-shin-oil-2013-painting-96-untitled-oil-charcoal-on-canvas-532-x-455-cm-2013-sold-1375369291_b.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fpictify.com%252F529535%252Fsaatchi-online-artist-kwangho-shin-oil-2013-painting-96-untitled-oil-charcoal-on-canvas-532-x-455-cm-2013-sold%3B600%3B705)
> 
> The record Zayn puts on for Louis is Pushin' Against a Stone by Valerie June ([Wanna Be On Your Mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=949PkjZZWxk)). If Louis had picked the song, it woulda been [Talking Body](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlYbDjwBe2Y>Talking%20Body</a>%20because%20Zayn%20is%20way%20too%20sentimental,%20man.) because Zayn is way too sentimental, man.


End file.
